Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Another email.
Subject: Employee Satisfaction Survey Request: Expires at Midnight (Mandatory)
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, sitting up.
I feel empowered to do my best work.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
My CEO supports my growth.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
I skim the rest of the statements and rapid-fire hit “strongly disagree” all the way down.
Any comments about how the CEO could make this company a better place?
Nope. Skip.
ERROR: You must answer this question before submitting.
“Ugh!” I slam my glass down and jab at the keyboard. okokokokokokok.
ERROR: Your answer must be at least 250 words.
“Are you kidding me?”
I yank open the Amazon page for my last book, copy the blurb, paste it in, and hit submit.
You’re almost done! Do you have anything you wish to share with the shareholders about your employment at Pearson or your CEO?
“No, thank you,” I mutter, clicking the box—when my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“So, I have to call you from an unknown number to get you to answer me, Miss Clarke?”
Lucian’s voice drips through the line, low and edged with irritation. It’s unfair how much better it sounds outside an email—he should be narrating audiobooks of sins, not badgering me about quarterly reports.
“Hello?” he presses. “Miss Clarke?”
“No hablo inglés…” I mumble.
“Bullshit.” His hiss slides like smoke into my ear. “I need to present these to the shareholders at our all-hands meeting tomorrow.”
“I’m having a hard time hearing whoever this is,” I say, pushing the glass to my lips. “My phone must be broken. Goodbye.”
I hang up.
He calls right back.
I watch the rings appear on the screen, one by one, until voicemail cuts him off.
Silence.
Finally.
I take a long pull from the tequila and click on the TV. Love Island or Gone Girl? Either feels safer than thinking about him.
My phone lights up again—Mindy’s name.
“You’ll never guess who just tried to call me,” I say as I pick up. “Lucian has the audacity to—”
“Your English sounds just fine to me, Miss Clarke.”
I gasp.
“I borrowed your coworker’s phone,” Lucian says smoothly, answering before I can ask. “She and the rest of your team are pulling an all-nighter at headquarters since they’re clearly more dedicated to this job than you are.”
My tongue goes dry.
“I need to see you right after the meeting.”
“The all-hands meetings don’t usually end until, like, four in the afternoon…”
“And?”
“Fridays are the start of my weekends.” I slur. “I’d prefer if we met Monday morning.”
“Only one of us is the CEO, Miss Clarke.”
The line goes dead.
I grip the bottle tighter, fighting the urge to smash it against the wall.
With a growl, I pull that survey back up, crack my knuckles, and give him a piece of my mind…
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
I wake up groggy on the couch, head pounding, and the first thing I see is Myra in the kitchen, blending some kind of pink concoction.
“What are you doing up so late, Myra?”
“Late?” She furrows her brow. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning, Aunt K. I’m making you a hangover drink since you have to be out of it…”
I glance at the windows, seeing only dark grey skies. “Funny. What time is it really?”
“10:05.”
My head hurts too much for early morning jokes, so I pick up my phone. 10:06.
OH. MY. GOD.
I leap up from the cushions and shove all the files into my briefcase. Rushing to the bathroom, I take the fastest shower of my life, hoping the suds will wash the tinge of alcohol from my pores. Drying off, I slip into a black dress and twist my hair into a topknot bun. Trying not to hyperventilate, I make sure I have my badge and clearance before heading back to the kitchen.
“Here you go, Aunt K.” Myra hands me the bottle. “It’s kale, coconut water, banana, and almond milk. Oh, and here’s some dry toast to help, too.”
“Thank you, Myra.”
“I also ordered you an Uber while you were sleeping,” she says. “I told him to stay put and you’d pay extra for making him wait.”
“You really are the best, you know that?”
“Am I ‘best’ enough for you to not get mad about me telling the babysitter not to come today?”
“I’m going to let it slide…”
She gives me a hug. “Good luck at the all-hands meeting. Hopefully it’s not as bad as the last one.”
I kiss her forehead and step out into a drizzling and dreary Manhattan. A driver steps out of a grey sedan and opens the back door for me.
“You’re heading to Pearson Industries, correct?”
“Yes.” I slide into the backseat.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll get you there as fast as I can, Miss.”
“Don’t bother.” I sip my drink. “At this point, just take your time…”
The auditorium looks like it was modeled after an opera stage, as if Mr. Pearson wanted to compete for “most gaudy headquarters.”
Exhaling, I push the doors open and step inside, seeing that—thankfully—the meeting is already halfway done.